"Only that he's the sportingest cove ever born and a right royal fine fellow. My son didn't consider his family of any importance." Despite herself, she smiled fondly. She was happy that her son made such a good friend—or at least she had been, until Carey Townsend persuaded Brand into this rash escapade.
Mr. Townsend sighed again. "That's pleasing to hear. I like to think the lad has some spirit—although today's madness hints at a little too much. I hardly know Carey. I'm away so much and he's always completely tongue-tied in my presence."
"You probably scare the life out of him," Fenella said before she thought better of it.
To her dismay, he whitened, and she realized that her careless remark had stung. Mr. Townsend looked like a flying cannonball would leave no mark, but she came to suspect that a man of genuine feeling lurked beneath all that brusque self-confidence. The hint of vulnerability made her like him better, and she forgave his unconventional entrance. After all, he'd had more than twenty miles from Eton to London to imagine disasters.
"I deserved that," he said quietly. "But whatever Carey thinks of me, I can't leave the lad to wander around on his own, prey to every villain in the land."
She spread her hands, struggling through alarm to make sense of events. "Are you certain the boys are missing? Surely if the school contacted you, they'd contact me. Perhaps Brand and Carey are up to mischief—hiding to cause trouble."
"I'm certain they're missing." Looking deathly tired, Mr. Townsend rubbed one massive hand over his face. "The headmaster left it to me to tell you, although I imagine a letter is on its way. He suggested I come straight here, while they search the local area. I was so quick to find out the boys had gone because I was on the spot. I got into port from Copenhagen this morning and decided to call on the lad and see how he was faring. Thank God I did. Otherwise they'd be gone who knows how long before anyone noticed, damned muddleheaded numbskulls at that school. I should have guessed I was on a wild goose chase, whatever his housemaster's ideas. I asked all along the way and nobody had seen them."
An agonizing mixture of worry and anger squeezed Fenella's chest. "I could wring Brand's neck." She moderated her tone. Recriminations would do no good. "But to be fair, it's not like him. He's levelheaded, mature beyond his years. This is the most trouble he's ever caused."
Since his father's death, Brandon had been touchingly protective of his mother. It was as if, even at six, he'd taken on Henry's mantle as man of the house.
Mr. Townsend sent her a sharp-eyed glance. "Are you saying it's Carey's fault?"
"I'm saying that there's no use speculating on their reasons at this stage."
"I'd say there's every use. If we knew why they ran away, we can guess where they went." He stood with sudden dispatch and started to pace, his long legs covering the distance from wall to wall in a few strides. Until now, this room had never felt small. With Mr. Townsend quartering the carpet, it became suffocating. "Damn it, there's no point sitting around here. I'll head back to Eton to check the roads leading out of town. The school's searching across to Windsor, but I've got a feeling the boys are long gone." He fixed those blazing dark eyes on her. "What about the family seat? Would Brandon go there?"
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"He might," she said doubtfully. "But I don't see why. He hasn't been there since Henry died, and the place is tenanted with strangers. Where did Carey and his parents live?"
"In Liverpool. William managed our Atlantic shipping from the docks there. But their house was sold after the accident."
"Would he go looking for you?"
"I doubt it," he said grimly. "But I've sent messages to all my offices to be on the lookout just in case."
"Is there anywhere else Carey's likely to go?"
Mr. Townsend growled with frustration. "Hell, I don't know. The lad's as silent as the grave with me. I should have tried harder, but I know nowt about raising bairns. When William named me guardian, I swore I'd look after his boy—now I've let him and Jenny down." Despite her overwhelming concern for Brand, the bewildered sorrow in Mr. Townsend's voice made Fenella's heart ache.
Her hands clenched in her skirts. She'd lost Henry. Be…damned if she'd lose Brandon, too. Since her husband's death, her love for her son was all that had kept her going. Only in the last few months had she seen a glimmer of a fresh start. Her friends Caroline Beaumont and Helena Wade had decided that five years of mourning were enough for any woman and they'd dragged her back into society.
With a determined gesture, she set her untouched brandy next to her embroidery. "Let's go, then."
Mr. Townsend regarded her blankly as she stood. "Go?"
"Yes. I'm coming with you back to Eton."
"That's impossible, my dear Lady Deerham."
"No, it's not. And while we argue, the boys get further out of reach."
The emphatic brows—heaven help her, everything on Mr. Townsend was larger than life—drew together over his eyes. "There's no way I'm taking you. I don't have time to cater to a lady's requirements."
Fenella's lips tightened at his quick dismissal of her usefulness and endurance. For five years, people had coddled her—if truth were told, people had always coddled her—and she'd had enough. It had been unpleasant, but refreshingly bracing when Mr. Townsend had shouted at her. Nobody ever shouted at her. Since her widowhood, they were inclined to murmur in her presence as if they were in church.
"I won't hold you up," she said evenly.
"Of course you will." He leveled a telling look upon her. "I mean…look at you. You'd crack with one careless touch."
Her eyes narrowed. "Looks can deceive, sir. I've borne a child. I've lost a beloved husband. I've made a life for myself." Well, at least, thanks to Helena and Caro, she was trying to turn that last claim into reality. "Don't patronize me, Mr. Townsend. A moment's weakness does not a weakling make."